


From the ashes

by FreeShavocadoo



Category: Narcos (TV), Narcos: Mexico (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Non Explicit Violence, Odd relationship dynamics, Weird Power Dynamics, total crack pair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 15:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreeShavocadoo/pseuds/FreeShavocadoo
Summary: Carrillo’s thumb runs across Miguel’s lip, wiping the small remainder of blood from it, his eyes following the movement. “You became too relaxed.”“Well, Horacio,” he moves his hand to grasp onto Carrillo’s before it can move back to his side, moving it to cup his own cheek and biting Carrillo’s thumb, “you, much like everyone else, will have to accept that I am never satisfied and I will never be complacent.”((Carrillo as Miguel's 'head of security' AU))





	From the ashes

In most cases, someone’s career choice was rather indicative of their character. Did they crave routine, a desk job that required little autonomous thought, going through the motions until they got the same meagre pay-check at the end of the month? Were they a social climber, never content to sit at the bottom rung of the ladder, only content with continuing to move upwards? The same could even be said for men in the illegal side of business. You had the mindless soldier or hitmen types, who were moderately good for following orders and little else. The local bosses, content with the little autonomy they did have, but without the drive to move further up at the risk of losing what they already had and were familiar with.

Then, there were men like Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo.

Never content with what they had in their grasp, constantly scheming and planning, somehow always moving upward with little intervention or competition. It was men like this, the types who were more likely to face danger and risk from themselves, that Horacio Carrillo worked for.

Long service for the police force in Colombia had set him up for a lifetime of discontent, of course, with so much red tape that even a man willing to face hard truths and make sacrifices was left in the dark. He’d dedicated years to his service, being the natural-born type that excelled in these types of positions. He thrived in high-adrenaline situations, utilising that which he was most skilled at for a living had been one of his better decisions. The meagre pay and lack of viable options he’d suffered as Colonel was a distant memory, though it wasn’t to say he’d suddenly disregarded the lengthy time he’d spent in Colombia. There comes a time when everyone must accept where they belong in the world; violence had always been a part of his world, and he was not self-righteous enough to assume he was in a position to judge others so harshly when he too, had engaged in questionable and immoral behaviour.

Being in Mexico only solidified his belief that men who wished to accomplish something successfully in law enforcement would be better suited to wait ten or so years for corruption to seep out. Of course, that would probably come as a result of men like Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo, who utilised corruption and remained successful and instrumental to narcotics trade because of it.

He’d been hesitant, at first, to employ Carrillo. Of all of the types of men he’d employed, Carrillo was not comparable to a single one of them. He was shrewd, patient; though not absent a rather ferocious temper, and didn’t have what every other man in the business had to some degree. Dangerous ambition. In a way, Horacio Carrillo was, to Miguel Ángel, deliciously _simple_. He was blunt, honest and had a rather obvious moral compass. It wasn’t sanctimonious, but it was indicative of Carrillo as a person that he would set boundaries for himself even in this line of work. Being the head of security was no joke.

“Are you going to leave them waiting all day?” Carrillo’s voice isn’t scathing, but rather in-line with his general attitude towards Miguel Ángel; assertive, blunt and no-nonsense.

“They’ve been waiting for five minutes,” Miguel turns to look at Carrillo with a raised eyebrow, “I’m sure they can wait a moment longer.”

Carrillo nods, standing straight-backed and tall, always put-together and never worn around the edges or dishevelled. Miguel can appreciate that, especially when it seemed to only increase his men’s apprehension of Carrillo, finding him to be unreadable, too solemn and completely puzzling. It’s not too hard to see why that is the case, with Carrillo never showing any signs of being uncomfortable around any man, never feeling the need to raise his voice. He was dangerously mysterious, and Miguel did love a good puzzle.

“Nava wants to arrange a meeting with you.” Carrillo sits across from him comfortably, adjusting his shirt.

“You’re asking my secretary for my schedule now, are you?” Miguel leans back in his chair, hands clasped together, mind whirring. Nava was, undeniably, an issue for him. Whilst it was beneficial and integral to have the backing of DFS, Nava was ever the vulture, waiting for one man to fall so he could drag the remains to his competitor.

“I’m your head of security.” Carrillo shoots him a critical stare, dark eyes narrowed, though there is a hint of…amusement? “It’s my job to know what’s going on in your life.”

“Then,” Miguel considers the opportunity to see inside Carrillo’s head, to see his true judgement in utter clarity, “what would you suggest I do about Nava?”

Carrillo huffs, a gentle outtake of breath. “Why ask questions for which you already have the answer?”

“I’m not asking for _my_ answer, Carrillo, I’m asking for yours.” He replies, still amused even now by the difference in their dialect. It was something the men, albeit behind Carrillo’s back, for obvious reasons, found positively hilarious.

Carrillo’s eyes, always intense, follow the movement of Miguel’s hands as he rests them on his lap. There’s something oddly reminiscent of nature in the way his eyes, never his entire body, track movement so seamlessly.

“He’s a liability to your operation, that much is clear.” His eyebrows furrow, his eyes flickering to look out of the window instead. “Azul would be a more malleable option. Though, that is implying that any of these men won’t discard you the moment the odds are in their favour and against you.”

Miguel laughs, gravelly and sardonic, shaking his head in amusement. “You have a way with words.”

“Thank you.” Carrillo replies, completely solemn, except for his twinkling eyes and minutely curved lips.

 

_The air is so humid, it takes every drop of energy to move him towards the sink and cough violently. He’d never assumed he’d end up back in Sinaloa this way, stowed away in some cabin he’d payed half a million for, all too aware of his former acquaintances plotting in the aftermath of everything, assuming he wasn’t going to return. Trying to take it all away from him, no doubt._

_“You’re pushing yourself too far.”_

_Miguel doesn’t have the energy to turn around, not that he’d need to. Carrillo’s voice is as clear as day, authoritative and perhaps slightly concerned. He looks at the blood in the sink, a reminder of his fragility of his body in comparison to his mind. The shift in priorities and overall stability has left him physically delicate, with stabbing pains in his stomach forcing him to keel over the sink like a sick child._

_“I’m hardly pushing myself.” Miguel wipes the blood from his mouth, irritable and feeling lightheaded. “I’m sitting in a cabin for a few fucking days before we move on.”_

_Carrillo’s hand rests on his lower back, reassuring and secure. “I think that we should move on.”_

_“Move on?” Miguel’s voice is scratchy, more inflected with exasperation than usual._

_“If it cost you half a million to stay here and half a million to leave, do you think that this is a loyal individual as opposed to a money-motivated one?” Carrillo rubs his back soothingly, his calm presence somewhat dulling the ache in the pit of Miguel’s stomach._

_“You think he’s going to give them my location?” Miguel stares into the scruffy and scarred mirror above the sink, finally seeing the dark circles around his eyes, giving him a perpetually sickly look. The lack of trust he had in others was taking its toll on him._

_“I’m certain of it.” Carrillo stares, grabbing a washcloth from the cabinet beside the sink and soaking it for a moment, washing Miguel’s face with a surprisingly delicate touch. He smooths Miguel’s usually immaculate hair back, fixing him with a stern and unwavering stare. “But, if we stay, we have the opportunity to possibly rectify your situation.”_

_“Is that so?” Miguel stares back, impressed and possibly fearful of the man before him. The only man left he could trust. “The tapes. You want to use the tapes as leverage?”_

_Carrillo nods, staring out of the open balcony with a small frown. “It would be likely to benefit you, yes.”_

_“Then what is bothering you, exactly?” Miguel watches him, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he stands practically at attention, eyes surveying the horizon as though he was always alert for the unpredictable._

_“You have to stop viewing anything in this life as permanent.” He turns, standing a head taller than Miguel and packing far more muscle than the slender man standing before him, eyes shrouded in mystery. “None of it is permanent.”_

_“What makes you assume I ever viewed any of it as permanent?” He asks, watching as Carrillo’s eyebrow raises, as if in dispute of Miguel’s sentiment._

_Carrillo’s thumb runs across Miguel’s lip, wiping the small remainder of blood from it, his eyes following the movement. “You became too relaxed.”_

_“Well, Horacio,” he moves his hand to grasp onto Carrillo’s before it can move back to his side, moving it to cup his own cheek and biting Carrillo’s thumb, “you, much like everyone else, will have to accept that I am never satisfied and I will never be complacent.”_

_Carrillo’s laugh is quiet, barely audible, but the way his face changes is immediately apparent and intriguing to Miguel. He looks considerably younger, softened eyes and curved smile, almost boyish; it’s like seeing a different person. He moves his hand from Miguel’s cheek, nudging it._

_“You are going to bring only suffering to yourself, Miguel_ _Ángel, and you will have only yourself to blame.”_

“Do you want to handle Nava,” Carrillo watches Miguel, the way they always do with one another, observing without subtlety, “or do you want me to do it?”

“I’ll do it.” Miguel stands, buttoning his suit jacket and sliding his fingers through his hair. Carrillo’s lips twitch at the motion, barely noticeable, if Miguel hadn’t been watching him like a hawk.

“Good luck with that.” He says, opening the door for Miguel and following him outside.

 

* * *

 

 

He’d been right, of course, about Nava. He was too dangerous to Miguel’s operation, far too assured of his usefulness and power. When Miguel had looked at him, he could practically feel the beating he’d gotten from the military after his flight with Amado, on Nava’s request. The ache in his bones for weeks, bruising and scars. He’s certain his shoulders still ache from his arms being suspended over his head for so long, even though he can’t quite remember just how long he’d been there. All he can remember is being assured that Nava would pay for attempting to play Miguel at a game he’s been swindling since he was a teenager. Manipulation was his second language, and it was Nava’s own fault that he finds himself stood near an elevator, dying from blunt force trauma.

Miguel is shaking, he can feel it in his hands and fingers, though he isn’t sure why. He can see Azul, face paler but no words escaping his mouth that is agape, hurrying from the scene and probably attempting to piece together what this means for him as Nava’s immediate successor.

His hands are grasped firmly in a pair of stronger, firmer hands. He looks up into the concerned eyes of Carrillo, noting the tense jaw and light frown on his face.

“This is why I asked if you wanted me to handle it.” His voice isn’t demeaning, nor is it taunting him with ‘I told you so’, yet somehow it hits harder than either approach would’ve. Carrillo’s thumbs run across his hands, his hands that are still trembling but are relaxing considerably under his touch.

“I handled it,” Miguel’s voice trembles, barely audible but he knows Carrillo never misses anything when it comes to him, “didn’t I?”

Carrillo’s hands squeeze Miguel’s firmly, bringing them up towards Carrillo’s chest and placing Miguel’s hands there. “Yes,” his voice is soft, and for the first time Miguel notes just how rich it is, how smooth, “you did.”

If Carrillo thinks anything of the way Miguel’s head rests against his shoulder, he says nothing of it, simply running his hand up and down Miguel’s back rhythmically until Miguel is so attuned, he swears he can hear Carrillo’s heartbeat. He nuzzles against Carrillo’s neck, the need to feel something, anything, so apparent it’s like it’s making his bones ache.

“Come upstairs with me.”

It’s less of a statement, more of an open invitation, but Miguel for once can’t bring himself to be swamped with the minute details. He trudges to the stairs, stepping over Nava’s body, only turning back to look at Carrillo for a moment. He’s on the phone, back to speaking his assertive tone, and Miguel realises it’s probably in relation to removing the body. He never did quite acknowledge just how reliant he’d become on Carrillo in terms of his business and in general.

He walks up the stairs soundlessly, not having to turn around to know Carrillo is following him; he’s practically got a sixth sense for the man now, or perhaps it’s his reliance slapping him in the face. When he reaches his room, opening the door entirely on muscle memory, it takes the majority of his remaining energy to shrug of his jacket and kick off his shoes. He flings his jacket onto the chair near the bed, following it with his shirt and trousers, too tired and weary to be concerned. Carrillo was the one who’d patched him up after Nava had sent him and Amado into his little trap.

Just like on that occasion, Carrillo is silent and perceptive, simply observing Miguel and reacting based on his assumptions. He’d never been wrong before. He only disposes of his shoes and jacket, Miguel closing his eyes as Carrillo’s weight joins him on the bed.

Convention had never particularly concerned either of them, thankfully.

Being wrapped in Carrillo’s arms, he’s sure, should make him feel effeminate. Possibly shameful or weak. Yet the heat from Carrillo’s chest as Miguel moves his back closer towards him is perfect, the strong grip exactly what he needs to ground him to reality. Carillo’s lips brush against his bare shoulder, dragging up to his neck. Whilst such an action would’ve previously left them both practically wrestling with each other to get their clothes off, in pure primal need, it is comforting and reassures Miguel. He turns his head to glance back at Carrillo, who’s eyes are practically pitch-black, giving him a small kiss and sighing contentedly when Carrillo responds immediately.

He stays awake for quite some time afterwards, until the room is so dark, he can only make out fuzzy outlines and he can hear Carrillo’s soft breathing against his shoulder. He allows himself, for once, to just enjoy the moment.

 

* * *

 

 

_He looks better than he has in months, his skin is practically glowing, and his eyes are bright, alert and almost mischievous. It’s as though Miguel_ _Ángel only felt alive when he had been close to death, like a phoenix from the ashes, he’d strolled out of the meeting with what was practically his own personal army, more renewed than he had been before._

_His great mood is only emphasised by the way he smiles lazily at Carrillo when back in his office at the hotel, as though he’s aware of an inside joke that Carrillo isn’t._

_“Something funny?” He asks, though his mouth curls up as well, as if he doesn’t care about the specifics but just naturally reacts to Miguel, like they are both attracted to one another by a force of nature._

_“What was that about only bringing suffering to myself?”_

**Author's Note:**

> Another total crack pairing, but when you love characters, you really will write anything to explore them more.  
> Comments keep me writing, keep me inspired and make me happy; so please do feel free to leave ANY feedback :)
> 
> ((Sidenote- italic passages are obviously indicative of future/present events, whereas regular are past))


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